


World On Fire

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 23:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier.





	1. Tuesday, May 27

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @cametobuyplums' 2000 Plums challenge on Tumblr. My prompt was "Viens avec moi" (come with me). Thanks Fizz! Thanks also to @littledarlinhavefaithinme for beta reading.
> 
> Part of chapter 1 is lifted from a prompted drabble I posted on Tumblr in February that I've since wanted to expand, thus the Pirates of the Caribbean quote XD

The promise of summer hangs heavy tonight. Hazy evening air moves slowly down the street, tickling your arms. You roll your head around on your neck, squinting into the sunset before the clouds shift back, casting shadows over Brooklyn. Your bare feet dangle over the edge of the fire escape six floors up, slow-moving pedestrians meandering along the sidewalk as bicycles dodge cars on the road.

The fire escape creaks below you. You lean to the side and smile as a familiar dark head makes its way up three flights of stairs, just enough time for you to light a cigarette and take a drag to settle your quick heartbeat.

Apartment 3B settles next to you, barefoot with his trousers rolled up a few extra times. You don’t quite look all the way over at him, but a smile tugs at your lips as he sighs and loops his arm around his bent knee.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” he says.

“It’s a Tuesday night, where else would I be?”

He hums. He’s quieter than usual, and so you finally turn to look at him as you take a drag of your cigarette. Ah, there’s that perfect profile, the perfect hair. The lean build he’s had since the first time you met him, back when he was still working his way to winning his first YMCA boxing championship.

But his boxing days are long gone. Under his eyes are darker bags than you’re used to, and there’s a slump to his shoulders you’ve never seen before. It’s been months since you’ve seen him. Traveling for business, his sister had said, but he looks far more weary than a plain old business trip would allow for. He must’ve just gotten back yesterday or today, otherwise you would’ve seen him sooner, even if only in passing on the stairs.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but think better of it. You’re not close. You chat and share a smoke every so often, but there’s only so close you can get with a fellow like him without falling—

Well, without exposing yourself. There are some things you’re happy for him not to know. If you pry, he might do the same.

The war had done things to everyone, really.

There had been snatched moments here or there, back before, when you’d thought something might happen. He’d give you a look, touch your arm for a little too long… Or that one time you’d snuck out dancing before your spinster aunt had finally gotten married, leaving you with her job and tiny apartment. Even now, with V-Day and your long-awaited reunion with your baby brother behind, you can’t think of a happier time than those few minutes when you’d been swept around the dance floor in your gorgeous neighbor’s arms.

You glance sideways at him, with his contemplative expression and all the weariness in the world in his posture.

The war had changed a lot.

But he sighs, shakes himself a little, and turns to you with a smirk. “So what’s been happening while I’ve been away? Break any hearts?”

You snort. “Oh, please. You know I’d never do such a thing!” A tap of your cigarette against the railing, and ash drifts away in the warm breeze. “It’s all the same around here, for the most part. Sugar’s still rationed. I’ve still got my job.”

“That old doctor treating you well?”

“If he didn’t, my aunt’d come barreling up from Kensington and give him a talking-to he’d never live down,” you say.

He shudders. “Poor guy.”

“Anyway, that’s the boring stuff. There’s a new soda shop around the corner. They have _killer_ milkshakes. And…” You glance around and lower your voice. “There’s something new in our seedy underbelly.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“A new hitman. They say he doesn’t leave any survivors.”

“No survivors? Then where do the stories come from, I wonder?”

You roll your eyes and take a fresh drag. The smoke billows in the air, filtering through the bars of the fire escape. You swing your legs back and forth, the summer air warm and thick. “Probably from whoever’s side he _is_ on. Some people just blab, y’know.”

“Huh.”

You offer your cigarette across to your neighbor, who takes it. He blows the smoke out in a clean ring; you clap sarcastically.

“Another brilliant performance,” you deadpan.

He snorts and hands the cigarette back. “Where’d _you_ hear about him, anyway?”

“Eh, people talk,” you say. “Once someone said ‘Winter Soldier,’ I was bound to be interested. I want a name that swell. All I’ve got are the dumb nicknames my family gave me when I was a kid. And all the silly names _you_ call me.” You nudge him with your shoulder, a little smile playing at your lips and a little warmth building in your cheeks as you sneak a glance at him. He’s as gorgeous as ever, weary or not. “Anyway, how’ve you been, Bucky?”

 

—

 

Bucky stays for another half-hour. Easy words, meaningless words, flow between you until he hauls himself to his feet with his good arm. He’d left his prosthetic at home. With the heat, you can’t blame him—you’ve seen it once, and the straps across the shoulders looked far worse than suspenders.

“Thanks,” he says as he goes, and you frown at him as he descends.

“What for?” you call, but he doesn’t answer. He just waves over his head, the slats of the fire escape swallowing him from view.


	2. Wednesday, May 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s that Rogers boy,” Alice says. She shudders. “Poor thing.”
> 
> “Rogers _boy?_ ” you repeat. “He’s older than me! Don’t tell me I’m a girl.”
> 
> “To me, you’re both children,” Alice says. She scrubs harder at the baking dish. “And I can’t help feeling sorry for him. All those ailments, and his poor ma dead near ten years, and him still struggling to scrape along…”

Dawn comes too soon for your liking. The birds outside are making their usual early morning racket, and you grumble to yourself as you reach over to close the window. The touch of nighttime chill sends a shiver along your body. You yank your shawl around your shoulders as you wobble over to your galley kitchen and flip on the radio.

Quiet jazz pipes through your little apartment. You hum along as you fry up toast and eggs in the same pan you’ve been using for years. The handle is scuffed, the bottom blackened with use, and you sigh wistfully as you think of the day when you’ll have new things, nicer things. Like your friends, the lucky ones who still spend every Sunday afternoon with you in Prospect Park. Times like this, holed up with your old frying pan, you can’t help but wonder at it. Mary’s a typist for a fancy company in Manhattan; Goldie works for a bank, handling more money than you can imagine. _Their_ pots and pans are shiny, bright enough to catch any man’s eye. Mary’s got a fellow, a nice one with a steady job; Goldie’s always had a string of jaw-dropped admirers at her beck and call. You… You don’t.

Would you even _want_ a slew of suitors? You picture a long line of them, tall and suited and hatted, faces in shadow, and you shudder. No, men with fancy suits and fedoras aren’t your type. Your eyes have always fallen elsewhere. It’s gotten you nowhere, of course, but—well, you’re not so fickle as all that.

Loveless or not, fancy job or not, Mary and Goldie have stuck by you. You adore them for it. Beyond that, you _like_ them. They’re lovely, and it’s nice to listen to them, too—nice to imagine yourself, one day, in their shoes.

And then there’s your brother. You grimace as you plate up your breakfast. Best not to think about _him_ too early in the morning, or you’ll give yourself indigestion.

If nothing else, breakfast is good.

Your eyes drift around your apartment as you chew. You still have to make your bed. There’s a faded paisley tablecloth under your plate, the same one you remember from your faint memory of visiting your aunt with your mother as a toddler. There are still hints of your aunt here and there, but it’s your photo album on the shelf, your favorite books. Here, at least, you’ve made a mark on your own.

 

—

 

You slip in the side door to Dr. Simon’s house ten minutes early. His house is one of the nicest in the neighborhood—five stories all to himself. Well, himself and his live-in help.

“Morning, Alice,” you call as you bound down to the basement kitchen.

Alice, fifty-odd and pleasantly wrinkled, glances up from the pile of dishes at the sudsy sink as you burst out from the stairwell, a grin on your face.

“Nice to see you in early for a change,” Alice teases. She nods her head at a plate of warm biscuits. A just reward for a bad night’s sleep.

“Mmm, fank you,” you say around an unladylike chomp. You swallow. “And I’m almost always early!”

“Well, if you say so,” Alice says, laughing. She scrubs at a baking dish—it’s shiny, of course—and quirks her brow at you. “You know someone’s already here?”

“Whaa?!” You nearly spit out your second bite and stare dumbly at the clock. “But—I’m early!”

“It’s that Rogers boy,” Alice says. She shudders. “Poor thing.”

“Rogers _boy?_ ” you repeat. “He’s older than me! Don’t tell me I’m a girl.”

“To me, you’re both children,” Alice says. She scrubs harder at the baking dish. “And I can’t help feeling sorry for him. All those ailments, and his poor ma dead near ten years, and him still struggling to scrape along…”

You swallow the last of your biscuit and brush the crumbs off your fingers into the wastebasket. “Golly, Alice, he’s doing alright, isn’t he? Didn’t he meet a girl?”

“Well, but she’s English.”

A roll of your eyes as you pick up the plate to bring to the living-cum-waiting room. “Alright, Alice. See ya later.”

Alice waves goodbye, and you head upstairs. You push the basement door shut with your foot and wander through the dining room, glancing curiously at the curtained glass doors to Dr. Simon’s office. Steve Rogers has always fascinated you, if only because he’s friends with Bucky. Anyone, _anything_ , attached to Bucky Barnes grabs your attention whether you care for it to or not.

You’ve met Steve in passing a few times. He’s always been polite, unassuming until someone did something stupid. You can’t help the twitch in your lips when you think of Steve Rogers, no taller than you and far skinnier, threatening any fool who dared do something he deemed _wrong_.

Strange, too, to consider how skinny artist Steve Rogers and boxing-champion-turned-war-hero Bucky Barnes grew to be such good friends. You don’t know how they met. Was Steve always so reckless? Was Bucky always so protective? A strange duo, but it seemed to work. At any rate, the few times you’d seen Bucky’s fond exasperation towards Steve, with his big soul and righteous indignation, your heart had melted a little more.

Steve’s low voice filters through the office doors, and you shake your head to clear your thoughts. He’s a patient, not your friend.

Biscuits go on the table in the waiting room, and you glide up the fancy staircase in the foyer as elegantly as you can manage. You settle at your desk in the upstairs office, ankles crossed as you check today’s roster of appointments. Old Ms. Flynn will be in at nine, Mrs. Barnett with her son Teddy around nine-thirty, and so on. Lunch at eleven-thirty; you’ll have to tell Alice to have it ready earlier than usual, but that can wait. First, to type up all of yesterday’s notes for their files.

The day passes in a hazy blur. It’s warm, almost sticky in the office. But there’s a fresh bouquet with lavender on your desk from the front garden, and lunch is delicious, and you get to leave a little early. All in all, a nice Wednesday.

 

—

 

… Or not.

When you turn the corner onto your street, you stop short. The woman behind you almost bowls you over, and your surprised gasp catches the attention of the young man sitting on your stoop.

Your brother.

“Sis!”

His babyish face breaks into a sunny grin as he pops to his feet. You sigh and walk over to him, your smile half forced.

“Hi, David.”

David bounds over and wraps you in a too-tight hug.

“I’ve gotta breathe, you goober,” you tell him crossly. You wriggle out of his grip and clutch your purse tightly against your side. “What’re you doing here?”

“Special delivery for my favorite big sister,” David says. “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

“Fine. Come in, I guess.” You pull out your key and open the door, glancing up and down the street. No one you know, not yet at least.

David whistles as he waits, seemingly oblivious to your obvious discomfort. But after weeks with no word from him, you’ve started to hear things. Things you don’t want to hear, things you wish you could refute.

But you can’t, because you don’t know anything anymore. The sweet eighteen-year old who went off to war came back at twenty with a bad streak. Your baby brother isn’t innocent anymore, whether you know the details or not.

And for the love of god, you _really_ don’t want to know the details.

Five flights up pass in silence, save for his light, cheerful whistle. You’re used to the climb, and David’s never been a whiner. He’s a lot of things, but not that.

You lock the door behind you, glancing around your apartment for anything valuable you’ve left out. Well, not that you have much of value. Everything you do have is all stashed in the usual hiding spots.

Honking from the street has you hurrying to the window. You peer at the empty fire escape and yank the curtains closed.

One deep breath, and then you turn back to David with arms crossed. He’s already sprawled in one of your two rickety chairs, spinning a coin between his fingers. Neat trick, but you’re not impressed. He’s always been good with his hands.

“A delivery, huh?”

He rolls his eyes and pouts. “C’mon, sis, you can put in a little more effort. Aren’t you happy to see me? I came all this way…”

“From where? I don’t even know where you live anymore! Or where you’ve been—”

“Oh, don’t be a worrywart,” he says. “I’m doin’ peachy.” He tugs an envelope out of his pocket, eyes glinting as he holds it up. “And this is for the folks back home. Think you can send it over for me? I never did like the post office.”

The envelope sags a little in his grip. You step closer and take it, eyes widening at the weight. It’s not sealed—you peek inside.

You grip the edge of the table, knees weak. Bills. Twenty dollar bills, a hefty bunch. More than you’ve ever seen in a single place.

“David,” you gasp. “How do you have this?!”

He shrugs.

“David,” you repeat, “ _how?_ ”

You sink into the other chair, heart hammering. A thousand guesses flash though your head, but you push them all aside as you wait for the truth. The truth, or whatever twisted version of it your brother will tell you.

“Found a good job,” he says. He looks hopeful, earnest, almost like that innocent eighteen-year old who sailed to war. “Ain’tcha proud of me, sis?”

Your heart breaks. You set the envelope aside and grab his hands.

“Oh David, they’ll be so happy. This’ll mean so much to them.”

“Grandma can get her medicine easy as pie,” David says, eyes bright. “And maybe even some good meat for a change.”

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes. You can’t tell him how disappointed you are, not when he’s so darn earnest, so _happy_ to be doing his part to help the folks back home.

After months of nothing from him, you’ll take this, no questions asked. For your family, for those bright eyes, you’ll do it.

 

—

 

David teases you over dinner—food you bought, food you cooked—and drops a sloppy kiss on your cheek as he bounds out at twilight. His bright smile never dropped once he’d gotten your approval, and as you watch him go the first half-flight down, you can tell he’s still grinning.

It doesn’t matter that your approval is forced, or that he had to fudge the truth to get it. He’s happy. That’s what matters.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You don’t like to think of David as a liar. He’s your brother. You love him. If you don’t know what he is, what he does—well, it’s easier that way. For both of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)


	3. Sunday, June 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t see him in nice dresses,” Goldie says slowly, “and he can’t be from work, unless you’re pining after the ancient doctor, which I wouldn’t dare accuse you of, he must be that neighbor of yours.”
> 
> You blink. How…?
> 
> “James Barnes, I think?”
> 
> Your jaw drops. “Goldie, how on earth—”

“Goldie!”

You pop up from the bench at Prospect Park as your friend hurries over, her pumps crunching in the gravel. Goldie wraps you in a tight hug, then pulls back, her bright smiling eyes reminding you—not for the first time—of your brother’s. Of course, there’s no dangerous baggage with her. Goldie is pure sunshine.

“How are you?” Goldie asks.

“I’m swell! _So_ glad it’s Sunday,” you say with a sigh.

Goldie grins. “Best day of the week!” She pulls you back down on the bench. “How’s work? How’s life?”

“Oh, about the same as usual. You?”

“Didn’t your brother come back into town?” Goldie says. “What’s he been up to?”

“Oh… I’m not sure.” You twist your fingers together in your lap, gut churning.

“Don’t want to pry, hm?” Goldie’s eyes are sharp. You shrug.

“Not much point to prying. He wouldn’t tell me a thing anyway. He just goes his own way.”

“Uh huh.” Goldie crosses her arms and snorts. “Your brother is something else. Hard to believe you two are related, from all the stories I’ve hea—”

“Oh look, it’s Mary!” You jump to your feet, face burning, and hurry forward to meet the final member of your little trio.

“Hello you two.” Mary‘s strawberry blond curls bounce around her shoulders. She’s got her hands in her pockets and a smirk on her narrow face. You stop a few feet away and raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t you look like the cat that got the cream!”

Mary giggles. She loops her right arm around your waist and steers you back towards Goldie.

“You do look _awful_ smug,” Goldie says, her arms crossed.

“Well, I have some news.” Mary tugs her left hand out of her pocket and holds it up. Is that…?

It _is._

Your jaw drops. You grab Mary’s hand and stare at her new diamond ring.

“Oh my goodness! _Mary!_ ” Goldie cries. She flings her arms around Mary and leads her in a merry dance. Mary laughs loud and clear, curls glinting in the sun.

You grin as you watch them, your own hands clasped under your chin. Mary’s only been seeing Julius since February—a few months of courting, and now they’re engaged. And with the smugness wiped from her face, you can tell just how happy Mary is. She’s practically _glowing_.

Mary breaks free of Goldie’s stranglehold and pulls you in for a proper hug. You can feel her breath on your ear, the cheer of her giggle, the lightness that might be enough to let her float off into the sky.

Well, maybe not float off into the sky, but you’ll see less of her now, you’re sure.

“Oh I’ll _miss_ you!” you exclaim, squeezing her tight.

“Well it’s not like I’m leaving town!” She nudges your shoulder. “Julius only lives a few blocks from me! And we’re hoping to find a place of our own soon. I don’t fancy living with his family. Bad enough living with my own mother,” she teases.

“So when’s the wedding?” Goldie asks.

Mary hooks her arms through your and Goldie’s elbows and sets the three of you walking. “Soon, I hope! I’ve still got a few things to finish for my hope chest, but then, I suppose I’ll finish them after if I need to.”

“Will you?” Goldie says, brow arched. “I think you’ll be far too busy with a handsome husband to finish embroidering another set of napkins.”

Mary’s giggle is high and bright. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, but there’s a nagging in your soul. Embroidered napkins? A hope chest? A husband, even? These two really do come from another world. Still, it’s not their fault. And you wouldn’t trade your solitary apartment and the accompanying fire escape chats for the world.

Even if that’s all you ever get, you’d rather keep those than gain anything else.

“Enough about me,” Mary says. “I’m sure you’ll be sick to death of all the wedding talk soon enough. What about you two?”

“Welllll,” Goldie drawls, “I’ve got a fella taking me to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Which fella’s this?” you ask. Mary snorts, elbows you.

“Albert,” Goldie says severely.

“Now is he the banker or the accountant?” you ask.

“ _Andrew_ is the banker,” Goldie says.

She detangles herself from Mary and plops down on a bench, patting the middle for you. You sit between them, cross your ankles.

“What about _you?_ ” Goldie asks.

“What about me?”

“You never tell us if you’ve got a man,” Mary says.

“Nothing to tell,” you say firmly.

“And I don’t believe it for a second,” Goldie cuts in. She pokes your arm. “You’re pretty, you work hard, you’re plenty smart, so why aren’t you getting yourself a beau?”

Fire burns your cheeks. “I—”

“She’s _blushing_ ,” Mary murmurs. “ _I_ bet she’s got a beau already, and she’s just too shy to tell us.”

“I don’t,” you insist, but Goldie tugs at your sleeve and bats her eyelashes at you.

“I won’t tell a soul,” she promises.

“Pleeeease?” Mary winds an arm around your waist and smiles up at you with every ounce of sickening sweetness she can muster. You sigh, defeated.

“There is a fella,” you say quietly, and both of them squeal. You shush them, shoulders around your ears. “There’s nothing to tell! Only time I saw him with a nice dress on was in ‘42.”

“Six years!” Mary gasps. “You’ve been pining after one fella for six whole years?”

You shrug and duck your head, cheeks hotter than ever.

“What in heaven’s name have you been doing for _six years_ that he hasn’t noticed you?” she adds. “If he hasn’t seen you in a nice dress since ‘42, no wonder you’re still pining!”

Words escape you. You’ve never thought of it that way. You do _have_ a nice dress—the one you’re wearing, the same one you’ve been wearing every warm Sunday for two years—and one too fine to wear even on Sundays. A gift from your aunt, the one you’d worn to her wedding. But you’ve never dressed up for Bucky, not since…

Not since ‘42.

How can you explain it? It’s crazy, when Mary puts it that way. You have to be crazy to waste what plenty—including your own aunt—would call the best six years of your life. And for what? Daydreams, and nothing more.

Well. Not _quite_ nothing. There are those moments on the fire escape, with legs dangling and a shared cigarette, chatter that just skirts the things neither of you can quite say, that sweet comfort that feels as much like home as your own bed. And sometimes you pass him on the stairs, so close that you can smell him, your hand passing inches from his. A fancy dress would be out of place in those dim stairs, or on the fire escape.

But you don’t even know if your fancy dress still fits. No, Mary’s right. It’s crazy, letting it go on like this. Why haven’t you done something, _anything_ , to push it along?

“If you don’t see him in nice dresses,” Goldie says slowly, “and he can’t be from work, unless you’re pining after the ancient doctor, which I wouldn’t dare accuse you of, he must be that neighbor of yours.”

You blink. How…?

“James Barnes, I think?”

Your jaw drops. “Goldie, how on earth—”

“Oh my god!”

Mary leaps to her feet and claps a hand over her mouth. You follow her wide-eyed gaze, mystified.

Then you spot him.

“David?!”

Your brother, your baby brother, staggering towards you with a shiner and a bloody nose and that sunny smile of his a bloody grimace. The people he’s passed are gaping; Mary beside you makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat and drags Goldie away, not even muttering a farewell.

Only then do you manage to get to your feet. You run to David, fear tightening your throat. The embarrassment of it all is nothing, not now, not when David’s barely upright. He collapses into your arms, nearly sending you to your knees as he stifles a groan.

“Think I scared your friends away,” he mumbles. He sniffs, rights himself, and wipes his bloody upper lip with the back of his hand.

You fish out your handkerchief, but you’ve no idea where to put it first. His nose, his mouth? The scrape on his jaw? What _happened_ to him? What—and who?

“Come on, Deborah,” a man says, hurrying his girl past. He shoots you and David a dirty look, and a stab of unease cuts through you.

Sunny Prospect Park is no place for David. Or you.

“Come on,” you tell him. “I’m taking you home.”

 

—

 

David hisses as you press a damp handkerchief to his nose. It’s as much complaint as you’ve heard from him. Tiny hisses, bit-back groans, the odd sigh punctuated by a hand to his ribs. You focus on patching him up as best you can, but it’s harder and harder to bite back the questions. You’re dying to ask. More than ever, you want to ask.

This has to do with that envelope from Wednesday night. The one full of money, the one already on its way upstate. What else could it possibly be? What else does your little brother do that could cause such harm to come his way?

All that money…

Where did it come from?

But you can’t ask. You _can’t_. If you know, you’ll be weighted down by the truth. You’ll have to _do_ something about it. Scold him, report him, try and make him do different. _Be_ different.

But since when have you ever been able to sway David?

No, the less you know the better.

All you can do is help. He’s your brother. You can do no less.

 

—

 

You let David take your bed for the night. “Just tonight, David,” you warn him, but he only kisses the top of your head and eases himself between the sheets.

A blanket on the floor and a spare towel rolled under your head is the best you can manage, but at least from here you can watch the rise and fall of David’s shoulder as he breathes. He’s here, he’s not bleeding. He’s safe.

Safe—safe from _what?_

You turn away and curl your arm under your head, worrying your lips. You press your free hand against the floor, pushing down in hopes that you’ll smother your questions as easily as you grind the dust into the floor. Behind you, David tosses, turns; his little pained noises paint the quiet apartment. The bed creaks with his every move.

It takes a long time to fall asleep.

 

—

 

A thump startles you awake. You jolt up, and a fire burns down the side of your neck. “Ah!”

Silence falls. You massage your cricked neck, realize you’re still on the floor, and whirl to the bed. It’s… empty.

“David?”

A sigh behind you, and the squeak of the door. David’s shoulders are hunched with shame, and you can just make out his wan smile, black eye, swollen nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Wait, David—”

But he’s gone.

You gape at the door with bleary eyes and a sunken heart. Your own brother, sneaking out at—you squint at the clock—three in the morning. At least… at least he can smile, even if just.

You crawl into bed, too tired to bother locking the door. A strange smell lingers on your sheets. It’s strange for this place to smell like something other than yourself, or cigarettes, or the occasional burnt toast. The scent on your pillowcase is… almost like home, really. Well, it’s David. Of course it’s home.

David. Where is he going? It’s barely three in the morning. Why did he leave? Why didn’t you make him stay? Why didn’t you even _ask?_

You know why. You know the answer to every single question, if you’d only let your mind go down those dark paths.

You don’t. You just force yourself to sleep.


	4. Monday, June 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky comes to Dr. Simon's.

“Alice, don’t even say it, I’m so sorry!” You bolt down into Dr. Simon’s kitchen ten minutes late, the frantic hum of anxiety thrumming through you. 

Alice tuts and throws down her ball of dough with a muffled _thump_. “Well, I hope so,” she says. “Never seen you so late before.”

“My brother was visiting,” you tell her, grabbing the biscuit tray. “He’s a menace.”

“Must be.”

Alice waves floury fingers as you pass by. Up the stairs—you don’t dare go two at a time, not with a china tray, but you still manage to nearly lose a biscuit—and rush through the dining room, eyes on the wobbling biscuits.

One step into the waiting room, a shadow on the couch catches your eye. You look up and nearly drop the whole tray.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt.

Bucky Barnes’ head snaps up from the magazine open on the coffee table, his eyes widening. He surges to his feet as you gape at him.

“I brought Steve over,” he says. His eyes are glued to you as you dart forward and set the biscuits down before stepping back, hands clenched in front of you.

You’ve never seen Bucky here. He’s got his own doctor, one who knows more about amputees and prosthetics. It’s odd to see him here among the floral upholstery and gauzy curtains. He looks… Well, with his fancy suit and his slicked-back hair, he looks almost at home. He’s even wearing his prosthetic. You almost never see him wearing it these days—but then, you don’t see him during the day, when he’s his proper self. He doesn’t look like the Bucky you know.

You glance down at your faded dress, a lump forming in your throat. All well and good on the fire escape, but—you hadn’t even had time to properly do your hair. You look… like you live on the fifth floor with Alice and Don. And Bucky looks like he belongs with china teacups and slick upholstery. You swallow back the bile in your throat.

“Is Steve alright?” you finally ask.

“Dunno,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Doc seemed to think it was nothin’, but you never know with Steve.”

You nod uncertainly. You’re just the secretary; you don’t know how good or bad Steve Rogers’ prognosis really is. Well, progno _ses_. He’s got a lot wrong, Steve does.

Another step back. “Well, nice to see you.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you turn and flee, face burning, chest painfully tight. You rush upstairs to the other office, the one where you keep all the files organized and answer the phone and jot down appointments in the big spiral-bound book open to this week. You fling yourself into the leather chair at the desk and bury your face in your hands, heaving great big breaths that just barely keep you grounded.

Why did Bucky have to bring Steve? Couldn’t Steve have come on his own? You can handle Steve just fine, but you didn't expect to see Bucky again so soon. And so… well, so _formally_. You’d never seen him in a place like this. Just on fire escapes and the occasional soda shop, and that one time you’d gone dancing back in ‘42.

In those places, you feel on equal footing. There’s no hierarchy on the fire escape outside your window, and the only distinctions that matter on a dance floor are lead and follow.

Here?

It’s not the same, and you hate it. You know your fantasies of him are ridiculous, impossible—but the stark reality of the differences between you is flinging all that dirty, ugly _truth_ in your face.

The war had been no picnic for him, but he’d come out a hero with a swanky new job to boot. And you were exactly where you’d started: poor, full of longing, and, most of all, alone. Alone except for your good-for-nothing brother and your all-too-perceptive friends who have surpassed you in every way.

You drag your hands down your face and shake yourself out of your misery. There’s a list of calls to make, a stack of notes to type up. Files to pull out and appointments to schedule.

Enough moping. You have work to do.

 

—

 

You listen close for Steve and Bucky’s departure, and only then do you run today’s files downstairs for Dr. Simon. He peers at you through his thick glasses.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m peachy,” you tell him firmly, and from there it’s business as usual.

 

—

 

Five flights to the sixth floor of your apartment building. Your calves ache with their customary burn, and you collapse facedown on your bed with a groan.

Well, aside from Bucky’s surprise appearance, it hadn’t been much worse than usual. You don’t mind your job, not really. If half your salary didn’t get sent home to help your struggling family upstate, you might even love it.

But no, you look like a factory girl even though you work in the nicest house in the neighborhood. You’re grateful Dr. Simon doesn’t seem to care. All your friends—Mary, Goldie—think you’re lucky, or would be, if only you didn’t have your damn family to help take care of.

If only your brother did his part. And not like he did the other day, but actually, properly did his part.

“Ugh,” you mutter.

Your brother. Your baby brother, with his tendency to disappear for weeks at a time and reappear with his gap-tooth grin, a fresh scrape, and just enough cash for home to make you forget to be mad at him.

You don’t want to know how he gets the money. It’s bad enough that he does. You’re happy in the dark, really. But sometimes you wonder. You worry. Can’t help it—he’s your baby brother. You worried all through his deployment, all through the months after the war’s end when you’d heard not a word until he showed up one day at your door, that gap-tooth grin enough to dissolve you into tears.

But today…

Today you’re past tears. Today you’re _angry_. Whatever had happened to him yesterday was far worse than a scrape. He’d been pummeled near within an inch of his life! When he’d been in front of you, bleeding and limping, your heart had stopped, but now that he’s gone? Fled into the night like some common criminal, leaving just a bloodstain behind?

You can’t help but be angry. If he had a job, a proper job—even if it was just staying on the farm—he could take care of the rest of the family like he _should_. He’s the man. How did _you_ end up the breadwinner?

Oh, that’s right. Because you have a sense of decency.

You roll over on your bed with a sigh. The sky is still bright, the air still hot and sticky with late afternoon heat. With your window cracked open now you’re home, you can hear people talking and laughing below, the distant clatter of pots and pans, the rumble of the metro, the honking traffic.

Your stomach rumbles. Someone downstairs is making chicken. You force yourself from your bed.

If you make your dinner now, maybe you can pretend you’re eating chicken too.

 

—

 

Sunset finds you scrubbing at the bloodstains on your pillowcase and handkerchiefs. Leave it to David to make a mess you can’t even ask him to clean up.

It takes time, but you manage to get most of the blood away. If anyone asks, you can always say it was your own bloody nose. Not that you’ve had one in years, but who’s to know?

You take the damp laundry to the fire escape, pinning it up on the clothesline overhead. The twilight is beautiful, all purples and blues, streaks of pink. Not a cloud in sight. Just some birds wheeling overhead. You lean on the railing and watch them, your heart full. God, if only you could fly away too.

The girls downstairs are out on their landing with their cigarettes, the smell a comfort even if you’re not in the mood for one yourself. They’re chatting about nothing in particular, and you easily tune them out as you watch the sky slowly turn dark.

The heavy patter of climbing feet catches your attention before the girls notice anyone coming.

“Ladies.”

A chill runs down your spine. Blood rushes in your ears. You scramble to your feet.

“Oh, hi James!”

The girls, adorable flirts, wheedle Bucky as you slip back in your window and draw the curtain tight.

A hand to your chest does nothing to calm your pounding heart. _Please let him not come up, please…_

“Excuse me,” Bucky says, “just going up.”

Your heart sinks. You forgot to close the window. He’ll know you’re home—hell, he probably knew all along. You sigh and sink onto your mattress, twisting your fingers in your lap as you wait for Bucky—beautiful, terrifying, untouchable Bucky—to arrive. You can hear the girls in 5B going inside.

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice is low. You twist, and you can just make out his crouched silhouette against your flimsy curtain.

You swallow, steel yourself for the suit, the slicked-back hair, the look of wealth so alien and out of reach. A flick of your hand, and you can see him.

Words don’t come. Just a rush of shock, of awe, of _wanting_.

Bucky isn’t wearing a suit. His hair isn’t slicked back. The strange man of this morning is gone.

All Bucky is wearing is trousers and an undershirt. Not even his prosthetic arm. Just Bucky, his hair falling loose across his forehead, as unassuming—as _gorgeous_ as he’s ever been. His blue eyes soft, his soft mouth quirked up and so damn pretty, his strong hand dangling between his knees as he crouches at your window.

You swallow.

“Will you come out?” Bucky asks.

You obey without thinking. Bucky moves aside, offers you his one hand to help you climb out. You hesitate before taking it, all too aware how that simple touch sends sparks all along your skin. Even when you drop his hand, your skin tingles. You smooth down your skirt and bury every feeling in the empty air below.

Bucky stands and plucks at the pillowcase hanging between you. “What happened?” he asks.

“I—I had a nosebleed.” Your voice is small, nearly hoarse.

“Is that why you were so flustered this morning?”

Shame burns your face, your chest. You step back, hands twitching at your sides, face flaming, and Bucky winces.

“F—I’m sorry,” he says. “I just…”He trails off and runs his hand through his hair. “You didn’t seem like yourself.”

You let out a slow breath between your teeth and flatten your hands against your back. “Neither did you.”

He blinks. A sigh, and he lowers himself down in his customary spot and pats the place beside him. You slide in, feet dangling like his, heart pounding. You don’t know what to say.

“I wish I hadn’t gone,” Bucky mutters.

You stare. “With Steve?”

“I never went there before,” he continues. “Wasn’t planning on it, but when he gets all breathless…”

“Well, of course you went with him,” you say. “He’s your friend.” Your eyes dart to your pillowcase. “We take care of people we care about. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Bucky shakes his head. His hand curls around the railing, the knuckles white. His brow is drawn tight, his eyes lowered.

What's he trying to say? What’s he thinking? You don’t understand him, not one jot.

It’s a long moment before he speaks again.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says. The words are slow, careful. “Seeing you there.” His eyes flit in your direction. “It wasn’t like this.”

You swallow again, throat suddenly tight. If it didn’t feel right at Dr. Simon’s, does that mean that this does? This—these moments on the fire escape, the best moments of your life—feels _right?_

At work, you felt like he was worlds above you, leagues away. Here, on the fire escape of your tenement building, together?

Bucky feels within reach. Or he could be, _if_.

“No,” you agree, voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t like this.”

Bucky props his cheek against his hand and gazes at you. You’re so caught by those blue eyes that it takes a moment to realize how _sad_ he looks. Your heart breaks, but for the life of you you can’t bring yourself to push. You can’t prod where he’s never given an inch—it wouldn’t be kind. Or _right_.

But you can’t just stare at him forever, no matter how much you wish you could. You clear your throat. “It’s alright now though, isn’t it?”

He nods, his cheek moving against his hand, his hair shifting across his forehead. You grip the bars of the fire escape to keep from brushing it back.

“Right now? Yeah.” He sighs, and you can’t help yourself anymore. You put a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothin’ you can fix. I’ll live.”

“Well, maybe I can’t fix it, but can’t I at least help?” you plead.

“You are helping,” he says.

He grabs your hand; your breath catches as his bright eyes fix on yours. Bucky brushes his lips against your knuckles. Your heart’s in your throat, your eyes wide as dinner plates, your lips parted, ready, waiting—but he drops your hand, looks away, and the little spark flaring in your chest fizzles out.

“You are helping,” he repeats, but it falls flat. He hoists himself to his feet, brushes off his trousers, and looks down at you with an unreadable expression. “I—I’ll see ya around.”

You watch him go. Your heart goes with him, his every step down tearing you open that little bit more.

 

—

 

The moon shines unpleasantly bright through your window. You squeeze your eyes shut as you bury your face in your pillow for the hundredth time.

If you were a few stories down, you wouldn’t even be able to _see_ the moon. But no, you’re on the top floor, the hot roof right above and moonlight streaming into your tiny bedroom, across your tiny bed. It’s a good thing you’ve never had a sweetheart. Where would they fit?

Bucky would never fit here, you think.

Your eyes pop open as heat flares in your face, your belly.

Why is it that every time you see him he invades your thoughts? Why can’t you banish him from your mind as easily as he surely banishes you from his? He’s Bucky Barnes, for goodness sake. A war hero, as gorgeous as he unattainable. He may have kissed your hand, may have said you were _helping_ , but there’s no call to think he has any thoughts of you when he climbs back down to his floor, to his bed…

You toss your sheet aside, every inch of your body burning as you press your hands to your eyes, willing your mind to behave. Your nightgown shifts across your breasts. With an angry whimper, you start to tug it off.

Then you stop.

Your window is open, the shades flung wide. It’s not quiet outside—Brooklyn’s never quiet—but the distant sounds of the city are mere hums. Your ears strain for the creak of the fire escape, but there’s none.

If there was…

Your eyes flutter closed, and your hands stray from your eyes to trail down your face, your neck. You can imagine footsteps, a shadow over your window, a gasp at the sight you make spread on your bed, fingers tracing the neckline of your nightgown and legs bared nearly all the way. _Would_ he gasp? Turn away, spare your modesty? Or would he suck in a breath and watch?

Deft circles of your thumbs harden your nipples. Your eyes stay shut as you lose yourself in your fantasy, of blue eyes darkening as you slip one hand lower and tug your nightgown up over your hips, legs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the burning tension.

A creak on the fire escape.

Your eyes fly open, terror ratcheting through you as you shove your nightgown back into place. The landing at your window is empty, but chatter echoes from downstairs. The girls in 5B. You press your hand to your heart and try to steady your breathing. The click of a lighter, hushed giggles, and your fantasy is shattered.

You prop yourself on unsteady knees and stick your head outside. “Be quiet, will ya?” you hiss.

Martha and Helen call up quiet apologies, and to your relief they disappear back inside. You yank the curtain shut, fling yourself back onto your bed, and try to sleep.


	5. Tuesday, June 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second you step foot in the basement at Dr. Simon’s, Alice crowds you into the corner.
> 
> “There’s an English agent upstairs,” she hisses. “Looking for you!”
> 
> “I’m sorry, a what?” You blink, too exhausted to fully process her whispers.
> 
> “A woman,” Alice says, a little slower but no louder. “English, and all brassy and bossy and—”

After a night spent tossing and turning, you finally fall asleep as dawn streaks pink across the sky. But you’re forced awake less than an hour later by your alarm. You drag yourself out of bed, exhaustion settling heavy on your shoulders. A quick sponge bath, a fortifying breakfast, an indulgent cup of coffee with nearly all your remaining sugar—damn the ration, won’t it ever end?

Despite yourself, you can’t help but look yet again at the window. Your cheeks warm as you swallow. The window. The fire escape. _Bucky._

Oh, lord.

For someone who is, in the common way, no more than an acquaintance, Bucky Barnes has the strange ability to make you half forget your own name with polite words alone. Ten minutes talking with him, and your whole night had been ripped to shreds with thoughts and dreams and wanting yet another thing you can’t have. Bucky might claim you’re helping, but he doesn’t even hint at what’s troubling him. How much can you really matter to him?

Why does he have to be so effortlessly charming? So handsome, so _good?_ If you had more sense, you’d avoid him. Be chilly. Dissuade him from coming up to your window to talk. Surely he can go gaze out across Brooklyn with other people, other girls, other women. It would sure be easier for you if he did. You could look twice at other men, maybe even settle for one. Settle _with_ one, you correct yourself, but it’s a lie.

Everyone else pales in comparison. Arm, no arm; weary, energized; next to you, anywhere else.

You toss down your toast, appetite gone. There’s no point eating when all you can think about is everything your life is missing. And the worst part?

You’re too chicken to do anything about it. Goldie, even Mary, probably, would’ve done something by now. Six years! Practically forever. But how can you do anything when it would risk what you _do_ have?

No, there’s nothing for it. Just dreams, and hopes, and prayers.

 

* * *

 

The second you step foot in the basement at Dr. Simon’s, Alice crowds you into the corner.

“There’s an English agent upstairs,” she hisses. “Looking for you!”

“I’m sorry, a what?” You blink, too exhausted to fully process her whispers.

“A woman,” Alice says, a little slower but no louder. “English, and all brassy and bossy and—”

“Mrs. O’Connell, is this her?”

A clipped, accented alto follows you down the stairs. Alice blanches. You whirl, gaping up at… 

“Peggy Carter?”

Brown eyes blink. Red lips curve into a smirk. Peggy and her heels and her legs come down the rest of the stairs.

“Well hello,” Peggy says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Weren’t you looking for me?” you ask. Your brain is awash with questions—what on earth is Steve Rogers’ dame doing _here?_ Looking for _you?_ Is this even about Steve? You’ve only met Peggy once before, by chance on the street when she’d looked even sharper than she does now. What is this about?

“She was,” Alice says.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. O’Connell.” Peggy gives Alice a look that could curdle milk—an impressive feat, given how pretty she is. “Perhaps you could bring up those biscuits so we can catch up in private.”

Alice swallows. She picks up the china plate from the counter and vanishes.

You lean against the counter, brow quirked up. Peggy wanders around the kitchen, studying you as she settles herself on the edge of the table.

“Uh, did you want something to drink?” you ask.

“Oh, this isn’t a social call,” Peggy says airily. She glances around the kitchen. “I’m here to ask about your brother. David, I believe?”

Your heart drops so fast you can almost hear it clatter.

Peggy Carter is Steve Rogers’ dame, but that’s the personal of it. Peggy Carter, like you, is a working girl. But she’s not a secretary.

She’s an _agent_.

“Yes,” you manage. “His name is David. Is something wrong?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Truth, or lie? Your bloodstained pillow flickers in your memory. David, too, stumbling towards you in Prospect Park on Sunday—no, you can’t lie, not when so many people saw him.

“I saw him Sunday.”

Peggy’s level gaze settles back on you. She looks almost… pleased?

“Your brother’s not settled, is he.”

You swallow. Your knuckles are white against the counter. “He makes do.”

“Does he?” Peggy narrows her eyes. “How?”

“Work,” you say weakly.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know,” you tell her.

“No?” Peggy stands, steps closer. “I heard that your family upstate just got a nice little package. From you.”

The money. The money from _David…_

“David doesn’t like the post office.” You clench your jaw. “And I’m not in the habit of interrogating my own relations.”

“Whyever not?” Peggy’s expression is quite innocent. “Aren’t you curious?”

You sputter. “Peggy—Agent Carter—”

“Now what _I_ think is that your brother has gotten caught up in something too big for his breeches,” Peggy continues. Her eyes glint as she fixes you with her sternest look yet. “In your neighborhood, you must know that the mob is hoarding sugar.”

Well—it’s true, so far as you know. You nod.

“Some has gone missing. Has your brother got a sweet tooth?”

Hot anger flares in your chest. “What, are you investigating for the mob now?” you snap. “If David—if _someone_ is giving them a run for their money, who are you to complain? Unless you’re crooked too.”

Peggy purses her lips. “Federal investigations don’t stop after the first level of thievery,” she says coolly. “And they _certainly_ don’t get advertised so everyone in the city hears about it, either.”

You open your mouth, but she holds up a manicured finger, silencing you before you’ve even begun.

“ _Do_ you have any information about your brother’s current whereabouts or recent activity?”

A shake of your head. “And I don’t _want_ to know,” you add.

“The truth has a ugly habit of rearing its head,” Peggy says. “It’ll come out, sooner or later. You should prepare yourself, if you haven’t already. Your brother’s up to no good.” She turns on her heel and strides back to the stairway, pausing with one foot on the first step. “If you do find anything out, don’t hesitate to call.” She balances a business card on the banister, but the wake of her climbing the stairs sends it fluttering to the ground.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two days since you’ve been well rested, and you nearly trip up the steps of your building’s stoop on the way home. After your delayed start—thanks _ever_ so, Agent Carter—you’d had to stay late, and now it’s nearly seven. Your key scrapes against the lock. Just before the door closes, someone catches it behind you, their heavy breathing an immediate danger sign in the back of your head. You spin, expecting a burglar—

But it’s only David.

Unless he is a burglar. Brother, burglar, or both? You heave a sigh.

“David,” you say wearily.

He catches you in a tight hug, pulls back. Only then do you realize how pale your brother is, how nervous his wide smile. You frown up at him. His eye is still a little swollen, the scrape on his cheek is still pink, but that’s not all that’s wrong. His right hand is held awkwardly, and all his weight on his left side. There’s a dark spot on the knee of his trousers. You put a hand to his shoulder, and he winces.

“David,” you say again, “what—”

“Almost got run over crossing the street.” David’s head drops forward. “Can’t catch a break this week,” he jokes, but you can’t find any humor here. Something nags at your mind, but you can’t quite unravel it.

“Come up,” you tell him.

You take the stairs slower than usual, ready to offer a hand, an arm, but David never asks. He just grits his teeth and forces himself up, up, up.

Your linens are getting a beating, that’s for sure. David’s trousers and shirtsleeves are rolled up; there’s a damp towel against a scrape on his arm, a wet handkerchief on his knee. He’s as browbeaten as you’ve ever seen him. You toe off your shoes and move to the sink.

“‘M sorry,” he mutters. “I keep wreckin’ your hankies.”

You frown. He’s sorry? The nagging at the back of your mind comes rushing forward. Your hand trembles as you set a glass of water beside him.

He’s _sorry?_ David’s not the apologetic type. If he’s apologizing, it’s because he’s done something wrong. Almost run over crossing the street? By accident, or on purpose?

You glance at the window. The curtain’s wide open. A chill curls down your spine; you hurry over to shut the world out. For all that you’d been upset by Peggy Carter’s visit… She can’t be _right_ , can she? It’s one thing to imagine David doing small things, but stealing from the mob? Is he insane?

A breath catches in your throat, and you sink down onto your bed.

“What?” David asks, but you shake your head.

Almost run over?

Last week’s words to Bucky echo in your brain. _A new hitman. They say he doesn’t leave any survivors._

No survivors?

You stuff your hands between your knees, eyes wide and unseeing. The beating, the car… Is all this the work of the Winter Soldier?

You force yourself to focus. David is staring at you, confusion and dread mixed in his face.

He’s come to you twice now, just barely escaped from no doubt a far worse fate. But luck only gets you so far. The next time you see David, will it be in a hospital?

Or will it be in a morgue?

Enough walking on tenterhooks. You can’t stand this anymore, not for one more minute. You open your mouth to ask—no, to _demand_ the truth, but a knock at your door has David’s expression shifting to relief.

No. _No._ You sit silently. You can wait them out. But David twists in his seat.

“Coming!” he calls. You snarl at him, but he lurches to his feet and yanks open the door to reveal—

“Bucky?”

Bucky stands frozen in your doorway, his eyes latched onto David. At the sound of your voice, he blinks, but there’s still a world of questions in his eyes as you patter over.

“David, my brother,” you tell him. “This… is James.” You don’t say _Bucky_. _Bucky_ is for you, and just a few others. Not for David, with all his lies.

David offers his left hand; the injured right one is stuffed in his pocket. Bucky just stares. His left sleeve is pinned up. No prosthetic tonight, either. He always seems to take it off when he comes up to your floor.

It takes a moment for David to register that Bucky’s missing most of an arm.

“Oh,” David says. “Sorry. I was just leaving anyway. Bye, sis.”

He slips past Bucky and rushes down the stairs without giving you another look. All that’s left of him are the bloody linens stuffed in the sink. You rub your forehead and lean against your door, shooting Bucky a wan smile. You don’t usually see him two days in a row, and with that you suddenly remember last night.

Your hand tightens on the door, your heart runs a quick beat. He’d touched you, he’d kissed your hand; you’d touched yourself—

“What brings you here?” you blurt, face burning.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m going out of town,” Bucky says slowly. “For work.”

His eyes slide to your sink. It’s an effort not to angle yourself to hide it. If you do that, you’ll just look guilty.

“More nosebleeds?” he asks.

You force a smile, as much answer as you can give. Lying to Bucky… there’s not much point, is there? He seems to know it’s a cover as much as you do.

“Well, be careful,” he says. When you raise your eyebrows, he amends it to, “Take care of yourself.”

“Oh,” you tell him, “I do.”

Bucky nods, his eyes on your face. He’s a few feet away, and the light in the hall is dim. But you can still see the curve of his jaw, the shape of his lips, the curl of his hair across his forehead. You can still see, and your heart is tight from seeing. And now he’s going away.

“How long will you be gone?” you ask.

“Not too long, I hope,” he tells you. There’s something strange in his face, something you can’t put a finger on. He opens his mouth, closes it. “Back Sunday, maybe.”

“Okay.”

“I—take care of yourself, will ya?”

You blink. It’s urgency in his face. Urgency. Why?

“I always do,” you say.

Bucky lets out a slow breath. He nods. “Okay,” he says. His hand twitches at his side, and he steps back quickly. “Well, bye.” He turns on his heel and flees nearly as fast as your brother had. You’re left standing stock-still in the doorway until you regain your senses and slam the door shut.

What is it about you that sends the men you care most about running?


	6. Wednesday, June 4 / Friday, June 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve not had the best week, have you?” Alice asks.
> 
> You sigh. “No,” you say. “I suppose not.”

Wake up. Make breakfast. Listen to the radio. Do your hair. Go to work. The same routine as every workday, but today is different. Every muscle is tense, eyes darting around on full alert, every creak and footfall a threat. Yet there’s a weariness in your shoulders. Usually you can focus, smile, even be satisfied—so long as you’re not thinking about what your life is lacking—but for some reason, even faking a smile for Alice as you get the biscuit tray is an effort.

_For some reason?_ No, you know _exactly_ what’s bothering you. And it’s not the sticky heat.

It’s David.

Whatever your brother’s been up to, he’s in danger. Two frights in three days? Whether or not Peggy Carter is right about him stealing sugar from the mob, David’s clearly gotten himself into trouble.

You twirl Dr. Simon’s fountain pen between your fingers, the appointment book neglected. What had happened to your baby brother? As a child, he’d been so sweet. A little wild, maybe, but sweet as—well, sweet as sugar. Certainly not the sort to get beat up, or run over. His only scrapes came from climbing trees.

But the war had done something to him. He’s still sweet, your brother. Underneath all the secrets and half-lies and avoidance, David still wants to help, even if he goes about it all the wrong ways. Plenty of boys with a stack of bills like the one he’d given you to pass on would have simply taken it for themselves. But you have no sense that David took anything at all. It’s not like he’s prancing around with a fresh suit or a shiny watch or anything like that. He dresses as shabbily as ever.

_As shabbily as you_.

You shake the intrusive thought away and clench the pen with a grimace. There’s a reason you don’t have nicer clothes. _Both_ of you are trying to help the folks upstate. You can’t fault David’s intentions.

His actions, though?

You shake your head and bend back over the appointment book. Appointments straight through til the afternoon, and you’ve still got some notes to type up from yesterday. You wipe your damp forehead, annoyed at the heat, at the work, at David.

How could he have been so _stupid?_ So foolish? Whatever he’s done, he should have known there’d be consequences. Should have known that you’d be desperate to help—but he’s given you no chance to do so. He runs off every time you try.

Not that you know what, exactly, you _could_ even do. 

What kind of help could you possibly offer? Well, money. You still have some tucked away, enough to at least get David out of the city. Maybe even home. Properly home, where he can provide the help he’s been trying and failing to give. What’s a lump of money compared to a man in the house with a steady job? David’s strong, healthy, certainly smart enough—he could do it. He could get one. Take a weight off your shoulders, let you live for yourself.

If you could…

You shake your head and lean back over the appointment book. Now’s not the time to think about…

Well, too late, you’re thinking about him already. When _aren’t_ you thinking about him?

Him. Bucky. Apartment 3B.

He’s out of town. There’s no chance he’ll grace your fire escape with his presence tonight. The one thing you most look forward to, more than your Sunday walks with Mary and Goldie, more than your rare visits home. Even with all the work you have to do—“I’m so sorry Mrs. Davis, but Dr. Simon is fully booked today. Yes, of course, I’ll see if he can squeeze you in, ma’am”—it’s hard to focus. David’s life at stake, Bucky gone away… Life is dull and terrifying and so damn deprived that your eyes blur even at lunchtime in the basement with Alice.

“You’ve not had the best week, have you?” Alice asks.

You sigh. “No,” you say. “I suppose not.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of Wednesday and Thursday go much the same. Even Friday is dull. Not a word from David, and of course Bucky is away. There’s no chance of seeing him. Still, habit has you sitting barefoot on your fire escape to watch the sky go pink behind the gathering clouds. The humidity is reaching a breaking point—the air’s thick, heavy, swampy. If it doesn’t rain soon, you’ll eat your stockings.

Well, not really. You’ve only got so many pairs.

Distant thunder rumbles across Brooklyn. You lean against the railing, watching the folks below scurry through the shadows on the lamplit street, eager to get home before the rain starts. You recognize a few silhouettes, but… no Bucky. Despite what he’d told you about coming back Sunday, you’d had hopes of seeing him sooner.

Squashed hopes, now.

The first few drops of rain along your arms come slow. You tip your head back, close your eyes, and let the raindrops leave little kisses across your cheeks. If only those were lips, _his_ lips… You shudder.

Then the dark skies open. A gasp tears from your lips as you scramble to your feet, almost slipping on the metal. In the seconds it takes to scamper in your window, you’re soaked to the skin, hair sticking to your neck and forehead. Damp feet leave a trail as you hurry to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes and rubbing yourself down with a towel until your skin prickles from the rough material.

The window is still open. There’s no breeze, just the heavy fall of rain on the roof, on the fire escape, loud as thunder in your tiny place. You can barely hear yourself think. All the better, really. Between Bucky and your brother, there’s not a single good thought in your brain.

You flick off the bedside lamp and lie flat on your mattress in your lightest nightgown. The rain falls heavy as bricks, just loud enough to lull you to sleep.

 

* * *

 

You jolt awake, heart racing. A shadow hovers over you.

You scream, flailing, but hands clap over your mouth, your wrist.

“Shh!”

You freeze, squinting into the darkness. A tilt of your head to dislodge the trembling hand on your mouth. “David?!”

“Shut up, sis!” he hisses.

It’s still dark, still raining, though less heavily than before. You can hear the sounds of night in the city, the moans and groans of pipes in the building. You sit up slowly, the last hints of sleep slipping off your shoulders.

David falls to his knees at your bedside. He’s shaking, you can feel it now. You wriggle your hand free from his and reach out to touch his face. It’s damp; his hair is wet.

“What’s going on?” you whisper.

“I—I shouldn’t have—I screwed up, sis. Screwed up big time.” He sniffs, leaning into your hand on his hair. “I need your help.”

You glance around the apartment. The window is still open, but at least the door’s shut.

“What can I do?” you ask.

“I gotta skip town,” he says. “Before…”

“Before he finds you?”

David’s eyes snap to yours. You can just make them out in the darkness, wide and terrified.

“How—”

“I live here, David. I hear things. Whether you want me to or not.” You pull your hand away—you’re the one trembling now—and fall to your knees beside David. Under the mattress, a stash of bills. An old habit, and right now, a windfall. You stuff the money into David’s hand.

“Take this,” you tell him. “And get out of here. People know you’re my brother, David. They’ll come looking. Go home, David. Go _home_.”

David opens his mouth. Before he can speak, the fire escape creaks.

You tilt your head, confused. Is that…?

A tiny wail unravels from David’s throat. He lurches to his feet, pulling you up, his fingers digging into your arm. You can’t tear your gaze from the window. It’s only Friday. Maybe Saturday morning, but—

“It’s _him_ ,” David breathes. He drags you towards the door.

“David, stop!” You wrench your arm free. It stings. “I’m wearing a nightgown, for god’s sake!”

A shadow in your window. All the air leaves your lungs. One crackle of lightning, and you can see.

It’s not Bucky.

It’s a man with a shadowed face, a fedora, two arms, and a gun.

“Fuck!” David grabs your shoulder and works at the lock, his nails scraping against the wood.

You can’t tear your eyes from the man in the window. He slips inside, barely looking down as he steps from your bed to the floor. The click of the safety, a muffled grunt, and David freezes behind you. You’re frozen, gaze locked on the shadow of the man’s face. No, not a shadow, a _mask_ , hiding every inch of his face.

It’s not Bucky.

It’s the Winter Soldier.

“Move,” he growls, gesturing his gun in your direction.

You can’t. Can’t move, can’t think, can only stare, heart in your throat, every hair standing on end.

“ _Move_ ,” he repeats. It sounds wrong, too low to be natural, garbled, growling, a predator. A monster.

You shake your head, barely an inch to either side but it’s enough for the Winter Soldier to take another menacing step towards you. It’s so dark, he looks like he’s come straight out of your floor. You can feel David behind you, trapped between you and the door. You take a step forward, hands shaking.

_It’s not Bucky_ , you tell yourself.

You step forward again. The stranger’s breathing is shallow. He’s as frozen as you had been. His gun is a dark shadow between you, but his hand is lax.

David has enough room to leave now, you think. Sure enough the door yanks open, swings shut. Your shoulders slump, and you back up quickly, hands groping for the lock as David’s footsteps pound down the stairs, down down down, to safety and—you pray—to home. The lock snaps shut, trapping you in. Trapping _him_ in.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t move. His gun is still pointed in your direction. You curl your hand around the doorknob, arm trembling. That doorknob is all that’s holding you up. If you fall now, a shot would go straight to your head.

David’s out, at least. His harried footsteps have faded, and all that’s left is you. You, a hitman, and a gun.

Well, so be it. Your knees buckle. You land heavily on the floor, lips parted as you stare helplessly up at the shadow before you. He lurches forward, his left arm stiffly reaching, but before he gets anywhere near enough to touch you, he hisses, wheels back, and all but melts out the window and into the night.

Your hand drops from the doorknob, lands heavily on the floor at your side. You lean your head against the door, close your eyes, and shudder into stillness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


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